Ballet: A Poem In Haikus

we sew our slippers as we sit in perfect splits, perfectly poised toes. i feel the music-- like a white rose feels the wind, it is meant to be. i am a tool for the director, just one more sculpture to place. a pirouette to arabesque-- i lose passé well, a good day. music in me, he holds my body with tight grip. my tutu shudders. pointe shoes circle as one, simultaneously, rond de jambe in sync. callused feet beneath us, we are feminine, strong prima ballerinas. Tchaikovsky is all i heard then, all i can now, ballet never dies.

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